“That's a four-hundred guinea beast she 's on. He belongs to the tall young fellow that's riding on her left.”
“I like his own horse better,—the liver-chestnut with the short legs. I wish I had a loan of him for the hurdle-race.”
“Ask him, Phil; or get the mistress there to ask him,” said another, laughing. “I 'm mighty mistaken or he wouldn't refuse her.”
“Oh, is that it?” said Creagh, with a knowing look.
“So they tell me here, for I don't know one of them myself; but the story goes that she was to have married that young fellow when Sewell earned her off.”
“I must go and get a better look at her,” said Creagh, as he spurred his horse and cantered away.
“Is any one betting?” said little Westenra, as he descended from his seat on the drag. “I have not seen a man to-day with five pounds on the race.”
“Here's Sewell,” muttered another; “he's coming up now, and will give or take as much as you like.”
“Did you see Mrs. Sewell, any of you?” asked Sewell, cavalierly, as he rode up with an open telegram in his hand; and as the persons addressed were for the most part his equals, none responded to the insolent demand.
“Could you tell me, sir,” said Sewell, quickly altering his tone, while he touched his hat to Westenra, “if Mrs. Sewell passed this way?”